Mr. Duncan felt a little disturbed by the strange, impressive scene, and was more than half disposed to wish himself at home. For some time he could make nothing out of the confused buzz of voices and chanting of hymns. But after a while a tall man mounted a stump and requested silence. "I suppose most all of ye know," said he, "that at our last meeting we concluded to go to the British, if we could get a chance; but we didn't all agree what to do about our masters. Some said we couldn't keep our freedom without we killed the whites, but others didn't like the thoughts of that. We've met again to-night to talk about it. An' now, boys, if the British land here in Caroliny, what shall we do about our masters?" As he sat down, a tall, fierce-looking mulatto sprang upon the stump, at one leap, and exclaimed: "Scourge _them_, as they have scourged _us_. Shoot _them_, as they have shot _us_. Who talks of mercy to our masters?" "I do," said an aged black man, who rose up tottering, as he leaned both hands on a wooden staff,--"I do; because the blessed Jesus always talked of mercy. They shot my bright boy Joe, an' sold my pretty little Sally; but, thanks to the blessed Jesus! I feel it in my poor old heart to forgive 'em. I've been member of a Methodist church these thirty years, an' I've heard many preachers, white and black; an' they all tell me Jesus said, Do good to them that do evil to you, an' pray for them that spite you. Now I say, Let us love our enemies; let us pray for 'em; an' when our masters flog us, let us sing,-- 'You may beat upon my body, But you cannot harm my soul. I shall join the forty thousand by and by.'" When the tremulous chant ceased, a loud altercation arose. Some cried out for the blood of the whites, while others maintained that the old man's doctrine was right. Louder and louder grew the sound of their excited voices, and the disguised slaveholder hid himself away deeper among the shadows. In the midst of the confusion, a young man of graceful figure sprang on the stump, and, throwing off a coarse cotton frock, showed his back and shoulders deeply gashed by a whip and oozing with blood. He made no speech, but turned round and round slowly, while his comrades held up their torches to show his wounds. He stopped suddenly, and said, with stern brevity, "Blood for blood." "Would you murder 'em all?" inquired a timid voice. "Dey don't _all_ cruelize us." "Dar's Massa Campbell," pleaded another. "He neber hab his boys flogged. You wouldn't murder _him_, would you?" "No, no," shouted several voices; "we wouldn't murder _him_." "I wouldn't murder _my_ master," said one of Mr. Duncan's slaves. "I don't want to work for him for nothin'; I'se done got tired o' that; but he sha'n't be killed, if I can help it; for he's a good master."